Sane, Safe, Alive
by ownedbyacat
Summary: Clint and Coulson, from the beginning, with a liberal dose of both angst and fluff. A selection of shorts and drabbles exploring the ups and downs of their relationship. Because it intrigues me.
1. You're the Voice that Keeps Me

**You're the Voice that Keeps Me...**

_**Sane**_

_Barton, report._

Clint let his eyelids droop for just a moment and sent a prayer of thanks to gods he usually didn't believe existed. Reason had arrived, just in time to save him. The spark of anger he'd clung to all day faded at the sound of Coulson's calm voice. Darkness started to edge his vision. He dropped his head and tried to draw a deep breath. The fabric of his tac suit – usually as pliable as a second skin – clung to his torso like a tightly laced corset. A fine sheen of ice covered straps and buckles, making it impossible for him to adjust the fit. He had spent sixteen hours on a roof exposed to freezing winds, with an officious voice ranting in his ear and junior agents making cheap puns about people sitting down on the job while they were forced to walk patrol in the ball-busting cold. He'd been just about ready to commit murder.

_Barton?_

"Thawing out my vocal cords, sir."

_In your own time, then._

The dry tone spread warmth through his body and dragged a smile from Clint when he hadn't thought he _could_ smile anymore. Not on this fuckup of an op, anyway. He didn't question where Coulson had sprung from, just thanked the higher powers that the man always knew when he was needed.

"Targets didn't show," he reported when he had finally decided what needed saying and what could wait. "The clowns down there spooked them."

Coulson's quiet sigh was drowned out by vociferous denial from a voice Barton detested, though he'd heard it the first time only two days ago. He forced his numb fingers to tighten and raised the bow:

"I have a shot, sir. Call it."

_Negative. _

_What?! He's made us wait hours and now you're here he suddenly has a shot? He's already impossible to work with and you're letting him get away with…_

_Stand down, Agent Cooper._

_I'm not having that. Barton's an arrogant little shit. I'm gonna…_

Pete Cooper's shrill tone reminded Clint of his brother dragging a nail down a chalkboard to make him squirm. It worked, just as it ever had. Agent Cooper clearly despised him, thought him worthless or – even worse – a liability. It wasn't a comfort that the feeling was mutual. There was little Clint could do about Cooper. But what if Coulson found he agreed with the man's assessment? If Phil Coulson thought Clint was impossible to work with he could refuse to partner with him. And ops like the current one would become the norm again rather than the exception they'd been over the last couple of years. Clint would be forced to go out with handlers he didn't trust, who didn't understand how he worked and who didn't care.

Clint swallowed past the obstruction in his throat and closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn't do that again. Not after he'd grown so comfortable working with Coulson. The man never panicked, never yelled, never even raised his voice on comms. He was the steady centre of Clint's world, the stable point he could lean on. Clint watched over Coulson and had come to accept that Coulson did the same for him.

He couldn't lose the trust they'd built. Not ever.

Clint was so spun into his painful ruminations that he paid but scant attention to the argument in his ear. Cooper's voice got louder as the man grew more and more irate. Coulson's calm tones never changed. But the sudden sound of flesh impacting flesh spoke volumes. As did the welcome silence a moment later.

_It's under control. Come on down._

_**Safe**_

Clint found it surprisingly difficult to follow that order. His body barely moved when he told it to. Securing a rappelling line to the edge of the roof became a complex task, almost too difficult to be attempted.

_Barton. Clint – are you alright?_

Clint was on his knees beside the waist-high parapet, wondering how he had gotten there. His bow lay on the concrete beside his left knee. He reached up a hand and checked for the quiver.

_Clint. Let me hear you._

"I'm here," Clint answered, surprised to find the words slurring together as if he was drunk. "Trying to..." he drifted off wondering what he had been doing. Something... His right hand was raised halfway to his face. He must have been... reaching...

The fire escape to the roof suddenly slammed open and a dark shape rushed towards him. Adrenaline burned its way through Clint's body and he managed to reach the knife sheath at his thigh. Before he could draw, the shape became familiar.

"Barton, are you hurt?"

It was the urgency in Coulson's voice that roused Clint far enough to comprehend what was happening. He was hypothermic. His body was shutting down. His brain wasn't processing at speed. Tying a simple knot was now a challenge. Rappelling down to the street was out of the question.

His body flopped, loose and soft, and he slumped against the parapet. "Tricky," he mumbled, hazily aware of the danger he was in. "Too long..."

"Can you walk?"

Clint shrugged. He neither knew nor cared. The comms was quiet – finally – and he revelled in the peace. He had everything he wanted right here. His bow was in in hand and Coulson'S calm voice in his ear. He didn't hurt. He was safe. He was even almost warm.

Then, suddenly, Coulson was yelling.

That had to be a dream.

"Barton, open your eyes! Breathe, man, breathe. Goddammit! BARTON!"

_**Alive**_

Waking up cocooned in warmth was blissful. One of Clint's most cherished dreams, and one he clung to whenever circumstances and his job forced him to endure cold and wet and discomfort. He snuggled closer to the source of the heat, curling his body around it, only to have it jerk away from his touch.

"Barton! Clint - open your eyes. Now!"

Warm and drowsy as he was, Clint really couldn't be bothered. He curled himself into a tighter ball, desperate for the warmth to remain, wishing he could keep sleeping. His brain had other ideas, though. He was waking up, whether he wanted to or not, while Coulson's voice continued to demand he open his eyes, move, wake...

No way, Clint argued, mind still sluggish. Coulson did not sound like that. Not ever.

Curiosity got the better of him. He slitted his eyes open and Phil Coulson's face was right there. The skin beside the deep blue eyes was pinched with tension and worry. The straight brows were drawn tightly together. Coulson's whole face spoke of worry and concern - and it was the most amazing thing Clint had ever seen. For many years, the only person who cared for him had been Natasha, and she didn't show her concern as openly as Phil Coulson was doing right then. Gone was the unflappable handler, the super-efficient agent he'd come to appreciate. The man looking down at him was badly scared. And that was ... fascinating.

"What happened?" Clint tried to move and found himself buried under an avalanche of blankets and sleeping bags. He wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing. And Coulson's legs were tangled with his.

"Thank god you're awake! You almost froze to death."For just a few moments Coulson didn't bother to hide his relief. His forehead touched Clint's shoulder and his words were a soft huff against his cheek. Then he sat up and started to slip from the heap of blankets. "Stay there. Let me get you some tea."

Clint relaxed as soon as Coulson's efficient handler persona returned. This, he could do. There'd be time later to unpick everything else he'd just heard and seen. Or he could consign it to the realm of dreams. Where it undoubtedly belonged.

He was sitting up when Coulson came back with a mug of hot, sweet tea, and reached for it eagerly. "I feel like on the fourth day after a three-day pass," he said as he started on the hot brew. "I remember about as much. Fill me in?"

Coulson did, and slowly Clint's memory returned. Along with a spark of the anger. "He didn't realise, did he? Cooper, I mean. He didn't realise."

A dismissive shrug was all the answer Coulson had for that. "He's an incompetent fool," he elaborated after a moment, idly rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. "He wasn't listening. He wasn't paying attention. And no, he had no idea how close you were to putting an arrow through him."

"Never thought I see the day," Clint commented softly, when random memories clicked into place and linked together to form... something whose shape and nature he couldn't discern quite yet. He only knew that at the centre of it was calm. A quiet voice that guided and kept him sane, safe and alive. It was a calm that drew him with irresistible force.

Clint Barton had no intention of resisting that draw. Even if it turned out to be the quiet centre of a firestorm.


	2. A Consummate Professional

**A Consummate Professional**

_Being called in to rescue a team of captured agents is not uncommon in Clint's line of work, even if the identity of one of the men in need of rescue gives him a moment's pause. But that moment of surprise is nothing compared to what Clint's unflappable handler has in store for him._

ooO xXx Ooo

_He called me an arrogant little shit!_

Clint only just stopped himself from swearing. He and Coulson were using a private channel, and Coulson never minded, but still... The identity of the agents they were there to rescue wasn't Coulson's fault.

_What are you talking about?_

Coulson sounded a little out of breath, but Clint supposed that was because the man didn't have Clint's experience climbing up every tall structure that presented itself. Right now he was scaling the side of an old factory building, strapped into a harness and forty feet off the ground. For someone not used to doing that – and wearing a suit and dress shoes – the man was damn good at it. Quiet, too.

_Last December. I was freezing my balls off on a roof after the rookies had scared off my targets. And _Agent Cooper_ had the gall to call me an arrogant little shit. On comms!_

_Yes, he did_, Coulson admitted with a just tiny chuckle in his voice. _But I dealt with him._

The factory was Victorian. To Clint's discerning eye that meant rock solid construction with convenient steel girders and cross-braces, fitted together to last. Victorian buildings made his job easier. Most of the time.

Clint settled himself comfortably on a broad beam. He leaned his back against the rough brick and fixed another line, ready to anchor Coulson when he reached the top. Below him, in a cavernous space that might once have been a workshop, three SHIELD agents were tied to the pillars that divided the room. All three were conscious, but they'd been beaten and even from this distance, Clint could see bloodied wrists, rubbed raw by the shackles, and battered faces. He could imagine the sea of bruises hidden under clothes and hoped with all his might that bruises would be all he needed to worry about.

_You knocking him out is not adequate punishment, sir._

Clint thought it lucky that Hill had scrambled Coulson the moment Cooper's team missed their check-in. They'd been on the way home from a mission of their own and closest to the factory Cooper was supposed to be observing. With Coulson and Hill coordinating, the rescue team had already been on the way by the time the second check-in lapsed and only an hour out when one of the three managed to activate the emergency extraction signal.

They had no idea who had captured Cooper and the two junior agents assigned to him, which was the main reason the rescue team was standing by and Coulson was joining Clint on high ground.

Clint leaned forward when Coulson's head appeared over the edge of the skylight, offering a hand in support. He needn't have bothered, but Coulson didn't complain. He took Clint's hand and pulled himself over the window ledge and onto the beam that Clint had picked as having the best view.

"Not something I want to make a habit of," Coulson said quietly as he settled beside the archer.

"Yeah, that suit's ruined," Clint replied, then pointed down. "They're damaged but conscious. Can't see any evidence of guards."

Which was worrisome all by itself, as they hadn't been able to find any sign of guards outside the building either.

"Maybe they left them here to die."

"Or they got what they came for." And wasn't that a cheerful thought. "Does Cooper know anything worthwhile?"

"Just because you don't like him, Barton..."

"Yeah, fine. I get it." Sometimes, bitching worked to relieve tension. And then sometimes it didn't. Clint made a face when he realised that it worked best when Nat was with them. Unfortunately, she was off on a solo mission infiltrating a drugs lab and had been gone far too long.

"She'll be fine," Coulson said quietly from beside him and Clint felt a wash of gratitude so strong, he almost hugged the other man. That he'd been granted two people who understood him even when he made no sense to himself was a boon he had no intention to examine too closely. Or give up.

"Four exits," he said instead, voice calm and professional. "Have the team stand by to back me up?"

"I don't like the lack of guards, so _be careful_."

"Yes, sir," Clint acknowledged before he switched back to comms, slipped off the beam and climbed silently down the brick wall. _I maintain that just knocking him out was nowhere near adequate punishment for that comment._

_But hanging him out to dry is?_

_Oh yeah._

_You're shit out of luck on that one, Barton. I wrote him up for not taking proper care of a shield asset. I really don't wanna do the same to you._

"That'd be the day," Clint mumbled under his breath. Coulson didn't hesitate to write him up for any number of misdeeds if he saw the need. Never for anything as serious as jeopardising another asset, though. Cooper must hate having a blot like that in his ledger. He'd be even more insufferable as a result. Oh, joy!

Clint settled his feet carefully on the russet bricks that lined the floor, not surprised to find them damp and slippery. Hidden in the shadows, he took stock of the room once more. The large rectangular space divided by a row of pillars could have been used for a number of things, though the drain in the centre of the floor gave Clint the creeps and he said so.

_Too many horror movies._

_Which are clearly rooted in reality._

_Focus, Barton. Nobody is harvesting body parts._

_That we know of_, Clint muttered into the comm – and then he ducked quickly to save himself a serious head injury.

_Barton?!_

Clint leaned out of the way of a flying fist. He stepped to the side and his leg shot out, catching his opponent behind the knee and pulling him off balance. Two quick jabs and a straight punch ended the surprise attack.

_Found the missing guards, sir,_ he reported quietly. _Well, one of them._

_Status?_

_Undamaged. Checking perimeter._

_I'll send in the team._

That damn drain had him twitchy, but Clint had no idea how to explain that without sounding like a complete nutcase. The familiar frustration leaked through his focus until he remembered that he had Phil Coulson at his back. The one handler who trusted him, even if he sounded insane.

_Negative. Something doesn't feel right._

Coulson was quiet for a moment and Clint stayed where he was, plastered to a rough brick wall with an unconscious guard at his feet. Having someone's trust like this was still strange to Clint. Heady and frightening at once, and Clint didn't realise he was holding his breath until Coulson's quiet voice came over the comm.

_Your call, Barton._

_Thank you, sir, _Clint replied softly before he started to move. First, the guard's keys went into one of Clint's pockets. Then he expertly trussed the man, drew a knife and made his way along the wall. He found air vents where no air vents needed to be, sets of shackles attached to each pillar and one extra door he hadn't been able to see from his perch.

_Clean_, he reported when he stood over the guard's still form once more. _Have the team stand by the doors. I'm going to release Cooper and co._

"Agent Barton," sarcasm was thick in Cooper's tone as Clint stepped up holding the keys to release the shackles. "I should have known, seeing how long you kept us waiting."

_Tell him to shut it or he can stay right where he is,_ Coulson's usually so calm voice all but snarled in Clint's ear.

"What?"

_You heard me._

"That'll be the day, boss," he chuckled. "Tasha's the one who carries duct tape."

_Maybe you should make that a habit._

The following words were so muffled, Clint wasn't sure he heard aright, but it sounded like_ don't want to hear idiots badmouthing you._ Clint's breath caught and for just a moment his mind took him somewhere he couldn't yet follow. That small sign of indignation on his behalf was all kinds of sweet. And interesting. And damn surprising. A smile curled the corners of Clint's mouth as he released Cooper's bonds and handed him a knife while he moved to the young woman shackled to the next pillar.

Agent Cecily Avent was known throughout SHIELD for her glorious hair. Unbound it hung like a black silk curtain well below her waist. Through training assignment after training assignment and handler after handler she had refused to cut the long strands, but this mission had been one too far. Handfuls of black silk covered the ground at her feet and what was left surrounded her battered face in ragged shards.

Clint ignored the ball of icy rage in his stomach in favour of freeing her hands from the shackles, worried when she couldn't hide a wince as he jostled her.

"They got anything serious?"

"Ribs," she gasped and slumped against him. "Boot."

Clint wrapped an arm around her shoulders and waved the bunch of keys in Cooper's face. He took them reluctantly, but finally went to work on Agent Franks' shackles, grumbling to himself the whole time.

Cooper's whiny voice almost drowned the soft hiss. Almost, but not quite. Situational awareness was a hard skill to unlearn, and the strange position of that drain had bothered Clint ever since he'd seen it. He let go of Cecily Avent, reached into one of his thigh pockets and tossed a handful of chalk into the centre of the room. It rose like a column of smoke, leaning gently towards the open skylight.

_Coulson. Floor level. Now! _

_Rescue teams: Gas being released. Open the doors. Now! _

Clint peered anxiously into the gloom, thoughts for his own safety momentarily forgotten. The gas was drifting right towards Phil's hiding place beside the open skylight. If he didn't understand Clint's warning, didn't believe it, didn't make it down in time...

"Let's get out of here, Barton."

Coulson stepped up beside Clint and the brief touch on his arm reassured Clint more than he was ready to admit. He turned and pulled Agent Franks' arm over his shoulder, helping the young man towards one of the open doors.

"The rescue team is right outside," he said as they moved, low and fast. "Get as far from the building as possible."

"Cecily is hurt."

"I know. Coulson's got her. Don't worry about anything but yourself right now. You did a great job triggering the extract signal. Where did you hide it?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Franks was beginning to wheeze, whether from the gas or the effects of the beating he had taken, Clint didn't know. He didn't have the time to worry about it either. He handed the man off to the rescue team, took a deep breath and ducked back inside the factory. Coulson was coming towards him, carrying Cecily Avent, a still grumbling Cooper on his heels.

"We're ok," Coulson called as soon as he caught sight of Clint.

"The guard."

"Let him rot," Cooper snarled and Clint couldn't even be bothered with a reply.

He covered his mouth and nose as best he could and sprinted towards the far wall where he'd left the guard. The man would die if they left him. He might have a story to tell if they didn't. Clint hauled the man upright, hoisted him over his shoulder and started back the way he'd come.

He was within sight of the open door when Coulson was there, ready to give aid if it was needed. And that was such a common occurrence, that Clint finally relaxed. He felt light-headed and faintly sick, and when one of the medics held out an oxygen mask he took it without complaint. Cooper was already driving the men crazy with his demands and Clint – though he had a reputation with the medical staff – didn't want to have his name mentioned in the same breath.

He ended up stretched out in the plane's lounge with Coulson in the seat beside him for the trip home, each nursing a large mug of coffee. Clint appreciated the peace, Coulson's quiet questions as they went through the mission debrief and the soft tap of Coulson's fingers on the keyboard of his laptop. He still couldn't explain what had felt wrong about the drain and Coulson didn't push. They'd left a surveillance crew and AD Hill was organising a larger force to get to the bottom of that factory's activities. The matter would be taken care of, giving Clint a chance to relax for a while.

Coulson didn't even demand that Clint get himself checked out in medical, accepting the EMT's assurance that Clint had suffered no harm from the gas. In fact, Clint's handler was his quiet unflappable self right until the plane set down. Then, suddenly, he was all snarling efficiency, gone in an instant with his face like a mask.

Clint had only ever seen Coulson look like this once before – when he'd gone head to head with Director Fury over Clint's decision to bring in Natasha Romanoff. Seeing his placid handler almost spitting sparks for no discernible reason was intriguing enough for Clint to follow the man, and when he realised where Coulson was headed, Clint detoured into the safest place for eavesdropping he knew: the ventilation system.

Coulson debriefed Cooper right there in medical, as soon as the medics had finished patching him up. Clint had been through that drill many times, but he'd never seen his handler so fierce, or so unforgiving. Clint heard the tightness in Coulson's voice, listened to the rapid-fire questions, the sarcastic comments pointing out inadequacies in Cooper's planning and leadership in a way clearly intended to make the other man squirm, and Clint almost dropped from his hiding place to rescue... well, he wasn't quite sure who needed it more.

Clint Barton almost... almost felt sorry for Agent Cooper.

If such thing was possible.

"You're lucky that the _arrogant little shit_ is such a consummate professional, Cooper," Coulson commented finally as he gathered up his papers and passed out of the medical bay. "I would have left your sorry ass out there to rot."

Safely hidden in the vents above Cooper's bed, Clint allowed himself a huge, goofy smile. He knew that he could trust Coulson to have his back. That had always been a comforting thought for someone who was used to operate without a safety net. That Coulson would fight for Clint was... unexpected. And unexpectedly sweet. But to think that Agent Philip J. Coulson would leave another agent in danger, that... was a load of bullshit.


	3. It's a Quarter after One

**It's a Quarter after One**

_... and Clint's alone with a bottle of Jack after a mission gone bad. Natasha, hundreds of miles away, can only do so much to help him face his demons, but then, there's a knock on the door._

_ooO xXx Ooo_

"Good work, Barton. We'll take it from here."

Director Fury was waiting on the roof as Clint brought the remains of the team back to SHIELD HQ. The mission had been a disaster and between bad intel, an inexperienced handler and four rookie agents it had gone to hell in a handcart in no time flat. Why Agent Roskoff had needed to set foot outside the barn that served as their command post was anyone's guess. He hadn't survived his decision long enough to explain it. Clint had taken command to stave off the ensuing panic, directing the rookies and covering their retreat. They'd made it to the waiting chopper and that's when the arguments had started.

Clint – strapping himself into the pilot seat and getting the hell out of Dodge – had kept his head down and out of the way of the accusations that flew fast and hard between the junior agents. Just as he was keeping out of the way of the ordered chaos right now. He stood off to the side, blending with the background and keeping his eyes front and centre, while SHIELD personnel rushed this way and that.

Nick Fury found him anyway and Clint braced himself for a tongue lashing. It never came. The man looked him over as if trying to reassure himself that Clint wasn't an impostor, before he nodded a dismissal.

"Go home, rest. We debrief you when you're not asleep on your feet." A broad hand briefly clasped Clint's shoulder and then the director was gone, following the medical team down the corridor.

Clint didn't even think to argue. He turned smartly on his heel and left the building before anyone could suggest that he should take the trip down to medical, too. He hailed a cab and was proud that he managed not to fall asleep on the way.

Once he was home, though, sleep was the last thing his mind contemplated. He showered and fixed up the slash in his side. He poured himself two fingers of Jack and downed them in one before pouring some more. He tried to watch some mindless disaster movie... nothing helped settle him. Fury's words spiralled endlessly like one of those annoying Christmas songs you couldn't get out of your head for days once you heard three bars. How a mission that ended with four agents wounded and two in body bags could be called good work was beyond him. Had Fury sent him to the brig he could have accepted that. Understood it even. But praise from the Director – rare as unicorns as a rule – for a fuckup?

He had his phone out and was dialling before he checked the time or even thought to calculate time differences. Nat answered anyway.

"Why do I always end up with the rookies?" Clint asked without greeting or explanation, not caring that Nat would be able to hear the pain in his voice.

"Because you do your crazy-ass best to bring them home."

It wasn't the answer he had expected to hear. Actually, scratch that. He had no idea what kind of answer he'd expected. Just that this wasn't it.

"So do you."

He got just a small chuckle in reply. "Stop worrying and get some sleep," Natasha said instead. "You're too worn out to think."

"I'm too worn out to sleep," Clint muttered, but he disconnected the call with a quiet, "Thanks, Tasha."

He never understood how just hearing her voice for a moment could make a difference. Maybe it was the fact that with her he didn't have to hide, didn't have to pretend. Wherever his mind took him, she'd been there already. Natasha was the strongest person he knew and she was always willing to share her strength with him.

The brief call had comforted him in an indefinable way, but sleep was still out of the question. Clint knew he was grieving and that coming to terms with two deaths needed time. Time and a lot more Jack. Because right now he couldn't look at the op and see anything but failure, omissions and mistakes. Couldn't think about the day's events without hearing the junior agents bicker and argue and blame each other.

The knock on his door surprised him. He raised his head, realising for the first time that he was slumped in one of his armchairs. Judging by the painful kink in his neck he'd sat there for hours. The clock showed a quarter after one. Surely Fury didn't want him _now_?

Before Clint had collected himself enough to make it into the hallway, a key rattled in his lock. Then the door swung wide and Phil Coulson strode in, holding a large bag of Chinese takeaway.

"Here," he said cheerfully, "I got all your favourites."

Clint stared at the vision of Coulson in sneakers, jeans and a deep blue sweater. He scrubbed a hand over his face as if the vision would change if he blocked it from his sight for just a moment.

"How did you get here?" he managed finally. "Why did you...?"

"Chopper," Coulson replied succinctly and headed for the kitchen. "Nat's too far away to get here before you drowned, so I got creative with the paperwork."

"Drowned?"

"Uh-hm." Coulson had a dish towel over his shoulder when he reappeared and plates and cutlery in his hands. "How badly are you hurt?"

"Just a gash. I fixed it." Clint thought it best to cooperate and let Hurricane Coulson blow through his apartment as if he owned it. It was less exhausting than to start and maintain an argument.

"I'll see that before you sleep. Now come eat."

Coulson hadn't been fibbing. He had brought all Clint's favourites. And after a few cautious mouthfuls Clint realised that he was ravenous.

"I stuck my head into medical before I came over and your rookies are fine. They asked me to apologise."

"For?"

Coulson's smile, had they seen it, would have scared the rookies into the jitters. "Letting you do all the work while they sat and argued over who was to blame."

Clint shrugged. "They panicked. When it all went to shit they... panicked."

"They know you saved their lives. And wondered if you'd be prepared to include them in the training you offered to Agents Avent and Franks."

"That's just..."

"Something you do in your spare time, I know." Phil's voice was gentle. "Both Cecily's and Tom's field performance has improved dramatically since you've started working with them. And you know how word gets around."

Clint's ears and neck heated with the unexpected praise. He wasn't doing anything special. Just passing on what Nat and Coulson had taught him since they'd become a team.

"Will you do it?"

"If it saves me from having to cart their battered asses back home," he grumbled. "They were pretty useless."

"The same could be said about Avent and Franks."

"No. Never." The sheer vehemence in his tone caught Clint by surprise. He hadn't realised how protective he felt about the two young agents. Was that what had brought Coulson to his apartment in the middle of the night? That same need to protect?

"Cecily and Tom were sent out with a self-important git for a handler. They didn't panic when they were captured. They kept their heads and Franks – not Cooper – was the one who triggered the extract beacon. The four today...," Clint shrugged.

"Tell me," Coulson demanded softly. "Nat said something really got to you."

Clint set his chopsticks down and stared at the table. "When Roskoff and Kentish went down, none of the four on the ground bothered to check on them. I had to _threaten_ them, Coulson. Honest to god, I had to fucking threaten to shoot them. Roskoff died of a bullet to the head. He was beyond saving. But Kentish ... They let him die."

Clint wanted to shoot something. Tear something apart with his bare hands. Anything to wipe out the image of his brother – walking away while Clint lay in the dirt, hurt and bleeding, abandoned like a piece of trash. Instead, he bowed his head and tried to breathe, will away the helpless anger that burned like acid in his soul but never accomplished anything. "Rob Kentish died while I was stuck on a roof protecting four agents who couldn't be bothered to help him."

He fully expected Coulson to talk about hard choices. To tell him to snap out of it. He didn't expect the arm around his shoulders, the brief hug or the warm palm that settled soothingly across his nape.

"You made sure they got home. You don't have to train them."

Clint was silent for a long time. Only deep shaking breaths broke the quiet. Coulson didn't speak. He kept his palm on Clint's neck, anchoring him against grief and recriminations. At a quarter after one, when your world fell to pieces, it was comforting to be known.

_ooO xXx Ooo_

_Four Days Later_

The four rookies across the desk from Agent Coulson were visibly nervous. And Coulson hadn't even opened his mouth yet. He didn't relish his skill to scare junior agents, but he used it ruthlessly when needed. He sat at the head of the conference table, calmly filling out forms and ignoring the men who stood in the centre of the room. He'd done that to Barton once, and the archer hadn't flinched or shifted his weight for almost three hours. The four agents weren't nearly as resilient. And Director Fury storming into the room sent their level of discomfort right through the roof.

"Have you told them?" Fury barked as soon as the door had fallen shut behind him.

"I was waiting for you." Coulson's voice was mild, almost gentle. A stunning contrast to the anger that radiated from SHIELD's director.

"Gentlemen, you have two options," Fury came right to the point. "You can clear your desks and leave. Right now. Or you can train with one of the best agents we have. He won't go easy on you, but if you survive you'll be better men, as well as better agents."

He turned and took notepads and pens from Coulson. "Before you make your choice, I have one more task for you. You will write to Agent Kentish's parents. Explain to them why their son is not coming home."


	4. Of Hawk Chicks and Birdwatching

**Of Hawk Chicks and Bird Watching**

_With his left wrist in a cast, there's little actual field work Clint can be sent on, so he trains his... chicks? Coulson didn't realise that he was fond of bird watching, but he thinks he deserves a treat for that._

_ooO xXx Ooo_

"You know you're grinning, right?" Jasper asked as he stepped up to the two-way glass beside Coulson.

"When you're looking at him," Melinda May supplied helpfully from Phil's other side, as if it hadn't been obvious what they were talking about.

"You're grinning like a loon."

Phil Coulson's smile just got wider as he watched Hawkeye put four young agents through a range of sandbox games. He'd never seen anything more unexpected – or adorable – than Clint Barton in charge in a classroom, especially knowing how hard it had been for the archer to add two students to his small and entirely unofficial training group.

He'd done it, though. Without making eye contact and scuffing his shoes like an embarrassed teen, he'd stood in Coulson's office and demanded that Agents Meredith and Walsh be assigned to his training sessions. Only two of the four junior agents Clint had rescued had made it this far. Two had quit so fast they'd almost taken the doorframe with them in their rush. The other two had literally agonised hours over writing a letter. The conference room had been littered with discarded attempts when they'd finally handed over their account of the failed mission. The letters were in a file in Coulson's desk. He hoped that Clint would ask to read them one day.

Clint was a hard taskmaster, as gruelling with his trainees as he was with himself. And judging by the way the four were scowling and surreptitiously wiping sweat from their brows, Clint's theoretical lessons weren't any less demanding than the physical ones.

Not that Clint was able to do anything physically strenuous right then. The archer's left arm was covered by a light-weight cast from fingertip to mid forearm. The wrist wasn't actually broken, but knowing Hawkeye the doctor hadn't taken any chances. He'd had Clint sedated and the bright purple cast securely fixed before the man could open his mouth to protest. Now, Clint couldn't shoot a bow, he couldn't spar, he couldn't even lift weights – and the enforced inactivity was driving him nuts.

So Clint had taken to haunting Coulson's office. He'd settled on the sofa with several crappy romance novels, packets of crisps, tins of coke and even a stack of old mission reports and had refused to budge, however much Phil told him off for being a distraction.

And Clint Barton _was_ a distraction, stretched out on Phil's couch in ancient jeans that fit like a glove and slithered like silk on the worn leather of the cushions. The sleeveless deep blue t-shirt he wore was so tight it seemed painted on. Every time Clint reached for a coke or a new report, it would slide up and reveal tight, chiselled abs or catch across Clint's chest. Really, Phil Coulson was sure he deserved a reward for getting any kind of work done the previous day.

"So when did he start training his chicks?"

Coulson shrugged. "Right after his gym session."

"He's on medical leave!"

"Yeah, well." Giving Clint access to the range and gym to let him practice with a handgun and run on the treadmill had been sheer self-preservation on Coulson's part. Or that's what he was telling Sitwell. "He needs to burn off some of that excess energy or you'll have to start checking your office for explosives."

"My office?"

"You were the one who named his team the _Hawk Chicks_," Melinda pointed out helpfully.

"Well, they are."

"At the most, they're _Hawkeye's Chicks_," Coulson corrected. "When it comes to birds, Barton's touchy."

"And Romanoff likes accuracy in her communications." Melinda's evil grin made Sitwell blanch and Coulson smile wider. "Come to think of it, so does Hill."

Sitwell suddenly recalled a pressing appointment and turned for the door. "I really had no idea you were so fond of bird watching," he managed before he disappeared.

"Neither did I," May commented, thoughtful. "But it's a lot more entertaining than watching you mope."

"I don't mope."

"When you've figured out what you call it, let me know. But your Hawk's been working pretty damn hard all day. Maybe you should feed him."

On a normal day Phil Coulson liked having friends. Today didn't feel like a normal day, but then ... he liked the crazy that came with Clint Barton's presence. Even if it meant doing two gym sessions in a day and hurting in places he had no recollection of having. He remembered the look in Clint's face when he'd asked to train Meredith and Walsh, recalled the soft "you gave me a second chance," and suddenly he could take it all in stride: the ribbing, the grins and nudges and even Clint's adorable blush.

Because Phil Coulson was so far ahead of Melinda May it was worth just a little smug grin.

"You're supposed to be on medical leave, Barton," Coulson had said in his best handler's voice after they'd tumbled out of the gym. "And I just know that grin. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Fury will kill me if you dismantle his coffee machine again just because you're bored."

Clint had tried to look innocent. It failed as well as it usually did.

"I'm due for pizza and a movie tonight," Phil said as casually as he could muster. "Why don't you join me?"

The fact that Clint had agreed so easily – that adorable blush notwithstanding – amazed Coulson no end. Which was exactly why he kept an eye on his archer while said archer put a group of junior agents through their paces. Just in case it was a ruse and his hawk would slip the net.

Much, much later when they both lounged on Coulson's couch, pizza boxes and beer cans on the coffee table, and argued over which movie to watch, Coulson finally asked the question he had wanted to ask all day.

"Apart from the silly name Sitwell came up with, do you regret asking to teach them?"

Clint considered that and Coulson didn't push, just watched the younger man quietly and intently.

The pizza was gone by the time Clint finally shook his head. "I jumped into it," he admitted, "but it's ok now. This thing you say – _you can save anyone if you catch them early enough_ – I'm hoping I was in time." He drained his beer and suddenly there was a grin on his face. "So, how about _The Towering Inferno_?"

And if, at some point during the evening, Clint Hawkeye Barton ended up fast asleep with his head on Coulson's shoulder, Phil Coulson could have blamed that on Clint's heavy workload and their poor choice of movie. If apportioning blame had been on his mind, that is.


	5. An Inch at a Distance

_/** Clint had never wished more for the ability to fly. Getting to Coulson from his perch took far too much time and the man wasn't moving.**/_

"I'm gonna wring someone's neck when we get back," Clint growled into the comm, sighting down an arrow. It was mid-afternoon and the old, stripped cotton mill was filled with light. At least visibility wasn't an issue. Though if struggling to see had been their only problem, Clint would have taken it. Gladly.

"Can't we have one mission – just one – that goes smoothly? Or is that too much to ask?"

"We've had missions go as planned." Coulson's voice was a soft huff in Clint's ear, reminding him – as if he needed reminding – of their current predicament.

"Yeah? Name one."

Coulson knew better than to answer him when Clint was in a strop. Clint was used to goatfuck missions. He could cope with maps that were wrong, targets that didn't show and even ammunitions dumps that blew up in his face. He could handle hours in searing heat, drenching rain or freezing cold, but this... Someone was so going to get it in the neck! Several someones. Even if Clint ended up in the brig for it.

He shifted his stance, careful not to give away his position, while he scoped the warehouse inch by careful inch. For the third time. When Hill had intercepted them that morning and amended their orders, Clint couldn't help the feeling of déjà vu. She was doing that more and more often, tagging little unexpected jobs at the end of their official ones, and Clint kept wondering why. This morning, she'd asked them to detour for a simple pickup.

_Simple, my ass._

Getting to the site had been the simple part. After that, simple had excused itself. Clint's internal alarms started screaming as soon as he stepped out of the rental car. Coulson's had been, too, if the stiff set of his shoulders was any indication.

The place Hill had sent them to was a dead drop; a quiet, out-of-the-way location where undercover operatives left messages to be collected by a courier. Only problem was, the place was far from quiet. It was out of the way, an abandoned factory site in the Derbyshire Dales, but at some point in the recent past developers had moved in. The huge billboard at the entrance to the site talked at length about rejuvenation and reviving the site's proud industrial heritage, but all Clint could see of said rejuvenation were a few randomly placed diggers and idling workmen who were a lot bulkier than they really needed to be.

Of course they hadn't rushed right in. Even if Clint had wanted to, Coulson insisted on sticking to the book. Clint used to snark at him about it, until Coulson had confided one night when they were stuck waiting for an extraction that the one time he had let himself be persuaded to skimp on the recon, half the team hadn't made it back out. Clint kept it zipped and played scrupulously by the rules ever since.

Their detailed reconnaissance yielded nothing. No sign that the workmen were more than they appeared. No sign of any suspicious activity. And no sign that the drop actually contained a message that needed collecting, either. Which was why Clint ended up high in the stripped out roof space, while Coulson entered the cavernous factory floor through a side door.

Coulson on point wasn't usually how they did things. Clint hated it. He hated it more that every argument he could muster was pointless before he opened his mouth. At least, they were both on edge, expecting trouble – so when trouble arrived...

Two of Coulson's three assailants had arrows in their throats before they could get within five feet of Clint's handler. The third man tried to ram a knife into Coulson's back. He died of a broken neck and Coulson acquired a new combat knife.

"Do you think that was it?" he whispered into the comm, silently making his way deeper into the interior.

"No. That was too easy." Clint's internal alarm was still screaming away and he didn't dare shift his attention from Coulson's form. He thought he heard a tiny sound, turned his head and caught a hint of movement. He yelled a warning into the comm and watched his handler throw himself sideways without a second's hesitation. Coulson had just made it to cover when a hail of bullets tore through the space he had occupied a moment earlier.

"Sir?"

"I'm ok."

"I can't see a thing. Don't move."

Coulson had tucked himself into the shelter of a brick column and an old dividing wall. He just fit into the tiny corner space, provided he didn't shift too much. Clint couldn't see Coulson's assailant from his current position, however much he twisted and turned.

"Changing position. Don't move."

Clint swung to another beam, narrower and much less stable. The place the fourth man had fired from was empty, but given where Clint had been, and considering where he was now... Clint narrowed his eyes. Inch by inch his gaze travelled down the gap between the dividing wall and the brick column that sheltered Coulson.

"There's a blind spot low on the dividing wall. About five metres right behind you."

"Do you have a shot?" Silence. Then an urgent whisper. "Barton? Do you have a shot?"

"I do, but..."

"Take it."

"What? No. Wait. Let me explain..."

"I told you to take the shot, Barton." Phil Coulson's voice was a commanding hiss, but Clint didn't move. The bow was steady in his hand, the arrow not moving from the tiny target he could just make out. Everything in him screamed at him to eliminate the danger to Coulson, to do as ordered, but... he couldn't.

"No," he said firmly. "Not without you realising that..."

"What? What is it?"

Clint drew a deep breath and let it out. It didn't calm the fear boiling through his gut, the sudden conviction that this one time, when he was the only thing standing between Coulson and death, he would miss. There had been other times, other dangers, but never one with such a small margin for error.

"Barton. Talk to me."

The familiar phrase, the calm voice... they settled Clint's mind like nothing else could have done right then. "The only line of sight I have is between the wall and your left cheek," he answered, voice slow and precise. "That gap's an inch, maybe two. If you move to give me room, you lose cover."

"So I won't move."

"Phil...," Clint's voice shook as he spoke the name. "You'll see it coming. You'll see the arrow. Nobody can..."

"Barton." There was a moment of silence, then Coulson's voice came over the comm: calm and sure and full of faith. "Take that shot."

The archer blinked his vision clear and focussed. His fingers curled around arrow and bowstring. Muscles bunched as he drew. Eyes never moving from the tiny gap he released his breath ...and then his fingers.

ooO xXx Ooo

Clint had never wished more for the ability to fly. Getting to Coulson from his perch took far too much time and the man wasn't moving. Clint's heart tried to hammer its way out of his chest. Coulson had to be unhurt. He hadn't missed his shot. He couldn't have.

"Sir? Phil... talk to me." He didn't care about the pleading note in his voice. He just needed to know...

"I'm fine."

Coulson's voice was a mere thread, soft with wonder. When Clint reached him – after hurriedly checking that the last of their assailants was no longer a threat – he hadn't moved from his meagre cover. His back was plastered to the brick, the column all that was holding him upright. His breath huffed out between half opened lips in quick, soft gasps and when he looked up at Clint his eyes were wide, the pupils blown to midnight black.

It wasn't a look Clint associated with a dismantled Derbyshire cotton mill. Or with Coulson, for that matter. This was a look that belonged with tangled sheets, soft lights and softer moans. And it was so completely out of sync with everything surrounding them that Clint couldn't even appreciate it properly.

A thin red line marred Coulson's left cheek, as fine as a paper cut. Clint cupped a palm around Coulson's jaw and traced the mark gently with his thumb. "That's from the fletching," he said very softly. "That's how close the arrow was."

He stared intently at the cut, not realising how little space there was between them or how intimately he was touching the other man until he felt Phil's warm breath fan across his cheek. He jerked away then, face flaming and not knowing where to look.

"Clint." Coulson's hand on his arm stopped his flight. "That was one hell of a shot."

"No more than fifty others."

"Don't say that. I've seen you shoot thousands of times, but this... this was..."

He trailed off, still breathless, and suddenly Clint got it: the wide-eyed look, the quickened breath, the flushed cheeks. Steady-as-they-come Coulson was an adrenaline junkie, turned on by danger. Clint couldn't believe that he hadn't known that, hadn't noticed it once since they'd started working together.

The broadest grin he could muster split his face. "I wish I'd met you when I was still in the circus," he declared. "It takes someone very special to stand unmoving while being shot at. The audience would have adored you."

And seeing Coulson look as if he couldn't wait to be ravished was a total bonus. But that stray thought, Clint kept to himself.

* * *

**A/N:** I used to be perfectly happy to write stories and lock them in a drawer when they were done. Since I've started posting here, I found I enjoy reading reviews, too! Knowing that there's someone out there reading and enjoying a story helps me keep going when it gets sticky. So thank you very much to everyone who left reviews on my first careful steps into the Avengers fandom. You're all awesome and I appreciate you a lot!


	6. Damned Sexy

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the comments and encouragement - we'll definitely carry on. This short came a little out of left field, trigged by one of the comments on the previous chapter. I ran with it anyway, because it gave me a chance to play with my Clint head canon, which I like.

* * *

_Coulson had always known that Clint Barton was a badass, even when Barton himself failed to believe it. But Clint like this... had to be the sexiest thing he'd ever seen._

Phil Coulson, Senior Agent of SHIELD, spent a great deal of his time co-ordinating cleanup. Not because he particularly enjoyed it, but rather because SHIELD assignments often ended in the sort of messes nobody wanted to leave to the local emergency services. Four dead bodies, even if there was no accompanying property damage, fit right into that category. So once they were sure the site was secure Coulson got on the phone, while Clint located the drop point and checked if it held anything of value or if their detour had been an elaborate ruse.

"A secret lab? And you didn't think it worth your while to mention that?"

Arguing with AD Hill could at times be entertaining. Coulson leaned against the rough brick, grateful for the support it provided. His breathing had settled after his close brush with death, along with his heart rate, but he still felt a little unsteady. It might have had something to do with his mind returning over and over to the images of Clint, balanced on a steel beam high in the roof, and an arrow speeding straight towards his face.

"Even if you don't believe your informant, a little warning would have been appreciated."

He knew he was wasting his breath, but since he and Clint had walked into a trap making his discontent known had become a matter of principle. Maria Hill knew it, too, so after a long pause she finally read him into the mission that wasn't and Coulson listened, attentive as was his wont.

"Hill thinks there's a secret lab here," Coulson said into comms once Hill had signed off and he had peeled his back from the supportive but uncomfortable column.

"Not all that secret," Clint's voice came back immediately. "I'm already on it."

"Where are you?"

"Cellar. Entrance is beside the drop point."

There was a strange note to Clint's voice, but Coulson ignored it in favour of searching their assailants. They carried the obvious – brass knuckles, knives, car keys – but no ID and little else that could be used to tie them to anyone or anything specific. And whether they knew to expect Clint and Coulson or had acted on impulse... that one was anyone's guess.

Coulson went to check on Clint and found him huddled over his tablet beside a locked steel door. His fingers were swift and sure and he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

"Almost there," he huffed, just as the door wooshed open.

"Ta-da!"

Clint was on his feet in an instant and through the door a moment later.

"You can come in, sir," he stated. "There's nobody here."

"How can you tell?"

"Occupancy sensors in the security system."

And then Coulson got it. That strange note in Clint's voice, so rarely heard, was anger. He caught up to the archer in a few long strides, grabbed his bicep and pulled him to a stop.

"Why are you mad?"

Clint opened his mouth, then took a breath and closed it again, hiding behind his scowl instead. This was just as untypical a reaction as the anger and Coulson took a moment to study the younger man closely. A flush bloomed across the archer's cheekbones, his eyes were narrowed and his lower lip was caught between his teeth. Add the rigid stance and half averted face and... Coulson still had no idea. Individually, he'd seen all of those reactions before. Collectively though...

"I can't fix it if I don't know what's broken."

"I didn't ask you to fix anything."

"Barton, it's my job to keep you fully operational." Phil was dead serious. "If you're pissed you're distracted. If you're distracted, you're not at your best."

"Yeah well," Clint glared. "Then Hill can just deal with it!"

"This is about Hill?"

"It's about her little detours. You could have died in here! If she has to send us into these messes, she should at least provide decent intel."

He slipped out of Coulson's grasp and headed deeper into the lab, leaving Coulson to stare after him in astonishment.

ooO xXx Ooo

The underground lab was a lot larger than Hill's explanation had led them to expect. And there was enough angry energy fuelling Clint to keep him occupied with exploring every nook and cranny. Coulson made him stop for sandwiches and coffee, but Clint barely sat down.

When the science team Hill had sent put in an appearance, Clint wasted no time dragging them into the hidden courtyard, where rows upon rows of large-leafed green plants grew under artificial light.

"They're growing pot?"

"For starters," Clint agreed, voice tight. "It's what they're doing with it that worries me."

He led the way into the adjoining lab and soon all Coulson could hear was an agitated rumble of voices over Clint's steady tenor explaining and demonstrating. And for some reason that just took him right back to his office and an afternoon during Clint's early days with SHIELD...

_The dark blue uniform sat perfectly across Clint Barton's wide shoulders. The sleeves were rolled down and the cuffs done up, as was every single button. His boots were spotless. Even the belt buckle was straight. Specialist Barton was parade perfect – and sprawled on the couch in Coulson's office with a scowl as black as a thundercloud._

_"What did you do now?" Coulson's exaggerated sigh hid a lot of sins. Fondness for the archer was just one of them._

_"Why do you even bother with me?" Clint asked instead, not moving from his sprawl. "I'm clearly too stupid to be a SHIELD agent. Why didn't you just leave me where you found me?"_

_Coulson's brows drew together. Barton sounded despondent, but also dangerously resigned. Coulson suppressed the urge to ask for a name and go inflict damage. He could do that later. Right now, Barton was on the verge of resigning from SHIELD. He couldn't let that happen._

_ "You're the best sniper I've ever met," he said instead, dropping the files he'd brought with him onto his desk. He pulled the water bottle from the bottom drawer and turned on the coffee machine in the corner. "You're a capable tactician. And your scores for infiltration and intelligence gathering are off the charts. Where did you get the idea that you're not cut out to work for SHIELD?"_

_He took a steaming mug of coffee – strong, black, sweet – to the couch and held it out patiently until Clint gave in and sat up. Coulson returned to the machine for his own mug, then settled on the couch beside the archer._

_"Talk to me, Barton."_

_"I've never read Little Women or the Origin of Species," Clint muttered, face buried in his mug to hide the flush in his cheeks. "I've never heard of Ossetia. Or osmosis. Or regression analysis."_

_Oh. _

_Barton wasn't a talker, but Coulson knew that Clint's upbringing had been... unconventional, and that formal education hadn't figured much in the archer's past. Clint was as sharp as a pin, but largely self-taught and that bothered him. The chip on his shoulder was the size of Manhattan. Unless he held a bow he hid his discomfort under an armour of snark and attitude. _

_Somebody had pierced that armour. And Clint was close to running._

_"So you think I've made a mistake."_

_"Yeah," Clint huffed – and Coulson was relieved that the archer didn't sound happy about it._

_"You are definitely not a mistake Barton," he said firmly. "You're an asset. One of the very best we have. Do you trust me?"_

_He asked the question without consciously thinking about it, and then held his breath. For a moment, Clint's eyes went wide with surprise, then he dropped his lids and schooled his face into a mask while he thought._

_"I trust you," he said finally and Coulson almost sagged from relief._

_"Clint." He waited until the archer looked up. "There's a difference between education and knowledge. You work out the most complex trajectories and ballistics calculations in your head, mid-battle. You can analyse situations, define options and calculate the probability of their success or failure without going near a computer. Just because you've never been taught what it's called, doesn't mean you don't know how to do it."_

_Coulson leaned back into the couch cushions and sipped on his coffee. He wanted to ask for a name, but he knew that he couldn't. Not now. "And whether you've read Shakespeare or Little Women does not define Clint Barton the person, or Clint Barton the agent," he said instead. "Trust me on that."_

_"What does it define, then?" _

_Coulson had never been so glad to hear the hint of snark in another man's voice than he was right then. "Clint Barton the bookworm, I suppose."_

Clint had laughed at that and – at some point after that day – had started to trust Coulson's words and himself a little more. There had been days when Clint – without his bow – had stepped out of the shadows and had shown what he could do. He'd grown into a formidable hacker, could operate almost anything SHIELD had in its hangars, and could spot and classify manufactured drugs better than any trained dog. Right now, he was in his element and it showed.

Phil Coulson, Senior Agent of SHIELD, had a mountain of work to do. He needed to check in with AD Hill. He needed to write up a mission report, hand the site over to the science team, find a hotel for them all to spend the night and organise watch rotas and dinner. Instead he was content to hover in a corner of the lab and watch Clint Barton argue quantitative analysis and isotope... something... with two biochemistry PhDs. And winning by the looks of it.

He allowed himself a wide smile, grateful beyond reason that he had managed to stop Clint's flight from SHIELD on that long ago day. Then he picked up his phone and made his way out of the basement.

"Just so you know," he said softly as he walked. "Confidence looks damned sexy on you, Barton."


	7. Twelve Out of Ten

_This... was bad. Very bad. On a scale of one to ten, Clint's situation scored twelve. Which meant his chances of freeing himself were minuscule._

Natasha was the first to hear the news. She didn't panic. Natasha never panicked. Her spine just snapped a little straighter and her lips pressed a little tighter together. She left the control room, collected her gear and made her way to Coulson's office and if agents, junior and senior both, stepped hurriedly out of her way as he moved through SHIELD's hallways, she'd long ceased to notice.

"Barton's MIA," she said without preamble when Coulson looked up from his screen.

"I know." Coulson's voice was steady and as Natasha stepped closer she saw that he was monitoring mission comms. "Team got separated on the way back. Barton was covering the retreat. He didn't rendezvous with them at the safe house, but there's been a lot of activity in the area. And lots of chatter."

"He's been taken."

"That accounts best for all the activity."

"We are going in?" It wasn't a question and Coulson didn't treat it as such.

"They're prepping the jet. Wheels up in twenty," he said.

Natasha turned and left without another word. If Clint was being held captive, she had preparations to make.

ooO xXx Ooo

This... was bad. Very bad. On a scale of one to ten, his situation scored twelve. Which meant his chances of freeing himself were minuscule. Clint remembered little beyond covering the team's retreat, running out of arrows and bullets while attempting to get through a small army of guards that had suddenly materialised from nowhere. The fighting had been fierce and dirty until... well, judging by his present condition, someone had managed to knock him out.

Hilarity bubbled up his throat and broke forth in a husky chuckle. He had a vision of himself, black tac suit, boots and empty quiver, buried under an avalanche of bulky muscle, swamping him the only way to subdue him. He had no idea if this was how it had gone, but it made an entertaining image. And a good story told over a beer.

His lack of actual memory bothered him. However much he tried to recall the events leading up to ... this, only a few small shards of memory linked his past to his present.

The light had been too bright when he woke the first time and he'd been strapped to a surface that was cold and hard and smooth. Not a gurney. More like an operating table. Polished metal with grooves cut along the edge, and cuffs that held his wrists and ankles like a vice.

There had been pain. Not the sharp, trailing pain of being cut, nor the aching bloom of punches. This pain had been searing, burning, spreading like liquid fire through his veins leaving screaming nerve endings and skin so tight it felt as if it would split at the lightest touch.

Along with the pain he remembered a laugh. A high-pitched chuckle that grated, glee so painful it was a torture all by itself. There had been words, too, words he couldn't focus on through the burning, words that had venom at their core. They poured over him like acid from a drum, adding to the torture until the waves of pain had risen too high and Clint had been lost beneath them.

The second time he woke to darkness and silence, to a pounding headache and the taste of blood on his lips, to hands and feet so tightly cuffed that it took him a while to realise his real predicament.

He wasn't being held in a cell.

ooO xXx Ooo

Phil Coulson and Natasha Romanoff stepped from the Quinjet side by side, shoulders touching. Natasha, in a black tac suit that clung like a second skin, bristled with visible weaponry and each step she took down the ramp hinted at other, hidden, terrors she was prepared to unleash. Coulson was immaculate in a charcoal Dolce suit, silver tie precisely knotted and shoes sporting a mirror shine. He had his phone to his ear and Director Fury on the other end and to anyone watching, the two agents were a terrifying sight. The babble of voices in the hangar stopped abruptly. An empty space formed at the end of the ramp, as if people feared to breathe the same air.

"Is the car ready?" Coulson asked briskly, phone still to his ear. "Who is monitoring the site?"

"Agents Walsh and Avent are back at the lab."

"You left the _kids_ to watch over Barton?" Coulson didn't sound incredulous as much as _I'm so gonna kick your ass_, but Natasha stopped him with a look.

"They know who they're looking out for," she said softly and Coulson took a deep breath and nodded. The two young agents owed Clint their lives. They wouldn't let him die.

"Let's move out," he said crisply and, "Thank you, sir," not feeling in the least embarrassed that it had taken the combined efforts of Natasha _and_ Nick Fury to keep him from imploding on the long flight to Clint Barton's last known location. If anyone did, Nick and Natasha understood the value of friendship. And if either suspected that Phil Coulson's near meltdown had an additional cause, they didn't bother to mention it.

ooO xXx Ooo

Clint Barton wasn't claustrophobic. If he was he'd never have made SHIELD's ventilation system his favourite place to hang out. Ok, it came with the additional benefit of being able to scare the crap out of Ivy League graduates that fancied themselves SHIELD agents, but he still couldn't have tolerated the narrow spaces and tight bends had claustrophobia been an issue.

Clint Barton wasn't claustrophobic, but when he realised that he wasn't just tightly cuffed but shut into a box he came as close to panic as he ever had in his life. His breathing sped, his heart raced and he struggled against his bonds with all the strength he had for endless minutes.

It was the lack of air that finally halted the heedless struggle, the gasping breaths that didn't seem to satisfy his straining lungs. He stilled, only now noticing the burn in his bound wrists, the ache in his tethered ankles. There would be bruises, if he was lucky. Skin rubbed raw and torn if he wasn't.

With a deep breath Clint swallowed the nausea, the panic and the fear. _Think_, he admonished himself. _Just think. Assess the situation. Establish a linear plan. _He relaxed his muscles as much as he was able, kept his breathing shallow and took stock:

He was in the dark.

He was bound hand and foot, too closely to free himself, to reach the file sown into his tac suit or any of his other hidden weapons.

He was enclosed in a box. (Clint absolutely refused to call it a coffin.)

Struggling led to him gasping from lack of air, though the faint hint of fresh air now and then suggested that he hadn't been entombed to die.

His noisy struggle had elicited no reaction of any kind.

He was struggling to breathe any time he grew agitated.

All things considered, this was bad. He couldn't get loose. He couldn't get out. And if he tried he couldn't breathe. On his scale of one to ten, this situation definitely scored twelve. His thoughts blurred, idea merging into idea without giving him the chance to evaluate one or the other... and Clint realised that his captors had left him just enough oxygen to survive and not enough to make any attempt to help himself.

That realisation made his choice for him. Clint knew that Coulson and Natasha would come for him. All he had to do was survive until they arrived.

He relaxed as much as he was able in his cramped quarters and his bonds, slowed his breathing as he had been taught and started to count the seconds.

ooO xXx Ooo

Phil Coulson and Natasha Romanoff needed few words to communicate. They had worked together for so long, each anticipated the other flawlessly. Setting up a mobile command post and starting the surveillance of the place where they suspected Barton had been taken was a matter of minutes. Refining their infiltration strategy, now that they were on the ground, took just as little time. And even though Coulson had to work harder than usual to keep his professional facade from showing cracks, only Natasha would have known. Or Clint, of course.

But while Barton's life hung in the balance Phil Coulson could be counted on to do what was needed. So he and Natasha worked seamlessly, passing, relevant information to each other while Avent and Walsh briefed them about the operation to shut down a diamond smuggling ring.

"There are maintenance tunnels running under the ground floor of the building." Cecily Avent fanned out the blueprints for Natasha to study. "The street level was clean. As in spotless. But at the end of this hallway," she pointed, "we found a locked door with a keypad. We didn't have time to..."

Natasha quirked a corner of one lip. Coulson knew that she had spent enough hours training _Hawkeye's chicks_ for Cecily to recognise the look as a smile and not panic. "That's ok. I'll find him."

She was gone moments later, slipping across the square like a shadow. She entered the factory through a second story window while Coulson tracked her progress. Natasha kept up a steady stream of _clear_ while she made her way through the building, not letting on that the lack of guards worried her as much as it worried Phil. Coulson heard it anyway. And while each solemnly spoken _clear _sent an icy stab into his heart, it also comforted him in some obscure way. Until they found Clint Barton's body, he was alive.

Natasha was always thorough, and while she searched the building room by empty room, she habitually deployed sensors. Coulson just as habitually added the data streams to the comms as the sensor's receivers came online. Until Walsh suddenly yelled.

"Oh my god," Walsh's chair rocked back with enough force to bounce off the wall. He stared at the comms screen as if he was seeing things. "Sir!" He shouted. "It's Barton! His comm is still active!"

ooO xXx Ooo

_Barton, can you hear me?_

Whispered words like the steady drop of water from a tap left half open, they trickled through his mind and meshed with the seconds he counted until he lost track of both. His concentration, meticulously maintained for hours, shattered like glass. Now little remained to push back the darkness and fear welled from deep in Clint's mind. His breathing sped when there wasn't enough air, his skin grew hot and tight, then cold and clammy and just before the panic took hold of him, the voice came again.

_Barton. Clint. We know you can hear us. Answer if you can._

_Barton... Talk to me._

Clint's awareness returned as soon as he recognised the voice. Coulson's voice. The steady hand on the helm on many of his missions. The man he trusted above all others. The man who trusted in him. He remembered who he was then. Where he was. How he was here. And why. The decision to endure morphed back into the will to fight. He worked to collect enough moisture to wet his lips, fought for enough air to speak.

"Phil."

The word was a croak, a mere breath, but he was heard.

_Thank god. _

The darkness was less of a threat now that he had company. Another soul now shared the silence. A trusted soul.

_Are you alone?_

He was captive and restrained. He was alone in the darkness. And yet, he was not. A long time ago Phil Coulson had made him a promise. Accepting it, believing it, _trusting it_ hadn't come easy to the man who had been deserted by so many. He had learned, along with Nat. And Phil Coulson had kept his word. He was there when Clint most needed him. And Clint was not alone.

"No guards," he whispered into the darkness.

_Can you move?_

"No."

_Where are you?_

He had considered that question after waking, before accepting that escaping from this prison was a challenge too far. Remembering was painful when thoughts blurred into each other. He didn't want to lose the steady drip of Coulson's voice in his ear, but even that was starting to blur. Breathing had become ... not difficult, exactly. More of an activity that yielded no results. He sluggishly pushed the thought around, knowing he was missing something important, something vital, something he needed to...

_Barton. Talk to me. Where are you?_

He had responded to Coulson's professional voice for too many years to ignore it now. He found a little more saliva to moisten his lips, found a way to gasp in a non-existent breath and turn it into sound.

"Cellar. Box."

He still refused to call it a coffin.


	8. Carrots

**Author's Note:** First of all, thanks so much to everyone who read and commented - you're all amazing! I apologise for being so evil as to end on cliff-hangers. Work is a bit crazy right now, and cliffies are my way to make sure I keep writing. I'll update as quickly as I can - promise. Aside from Clint in trouble, this has some of my Natasha headcanon. It's a bit of a hellbrew, which I'm thinking of dealing with separately another time, so please don't hate me for putting her in that cellar...

ooO xXx Ooo

_Natasha couldn't find words that didn't sound morbid or creepy. Blood and carnage she could deal with. Random attacks and violence she could handle. This... this quiet horror..._

Walsh's incoherent yell sent Natasha spinning with her back to the nearest wall.

"Status," she snapped.

"Your sensors picked up Barton's comm signal. It's active."

To anyone else, Coulson sounded like his normal, unflappable self. Only Natasha heard the achingly hopeful note beneath the calm and it resounded in her heart. The pragmatic part of her mind cautioned that finding Barton's comm wasn't a guarantee they'd find Barton. Or that he was alive when they did. She accepted that, but she still clung to hope as fiercely as Phil Coulson did. The bond the three of them shared was undeniable. They were family. And Natasha had always believed that she would know if either man was taken from her.

She moved from the shelter of the wall and continued clearing room after room to a background of Phil's voice trying to rouse the archer from wherever he had hidden himself. She'd reached the ground floor and was closing in on the locked door Cecily had pointed out to her when Clint finally responded.

Her steps faltered for but a moment at the thread of sound, then she doubled her speed.

Wherever Clint was being held, he was struggling to breathe. By his own admission, he couldn't move. And she'd only once heard him sound so ... out of it. Clint had perfected the automatic snarky comeback whatever the situation. When he was serious and thought about his responses, his silences didn't sound like they did right now: as if he had to remember how to actually use words. Clint clearly wasn't in a good place. And the sooner she found him the better.

The locked door didn't remain locked for long once Natasha reached it, though the simple code, so easy a six-year-old could have broken it, made her frown and grip her gun a little tighter.

"Stairs," she reported. "Lock disabled. Door wedged open. Going down."

"Copy that," Coulson replied. "Watch your back."

She didn't acknowledge his words, but they lit a spark of warmth in the darkness of her mind. Clint and Coulson had trusted her from the moment they met. She appreciated that and returned their trust as she worked to build a new life for herself at SHIELD. Accepting that both men truly cared for her, not just as an asset but as a person, had taken more time. Natasha no longer questioned either the sentiment or its validity, but she felt every manifestation like a caress to her soul. Right now, Phil Coulson was worried about Clint, and yet, he took the time to look out for her, remind her to take care, ensure she was safe.

She followed the stairs into the building's basement. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as the light grew dimmer the further she descended. And still there was no sign or sound of any other human soul. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, the blue glow from an LED outlining the light switch was the only illumination and Natasha shook her head in disgust.

"Someone thinks we're stupid," she opined caustically once she'd reported her findings.

"Or they're trying to rattle your cage."

"Possible." She fished a glow stick from the pocket on her thigh and held it up. What she saw made her gasp. And swear. On comms and in Russian.

"Tasha! Status. Now."

"I'm fine," she replied immediately. "Some moron's playing with us. He has a filthy sense of humour."

"Explain."

Natasha couldn't find words that didn't sound morbid or creepy. Blood and carnage she could deal with. Random attacks and violence she could handle. But this... this quiet horror sent ice into her blood and stirred memories she didn't want to recall. Ever. And knowing Clint might be somewhere in this room was just...

"Tasha!"

"Sorry, sir," she replied, voice very small. "It's just that... I'm standing in cellar full of ... coffins."

"Interesting."

"What?!"

"You're entirely right. Someone's playing with us. Someone who knows us well." Coulson's voice changed from vaguely amused to focussed and serious. "Find Barton. He's bound to be somewhere in that mess."

As soon as the logic of Coulson's voice cut through the horror, Natasha was moving. She dismantled the light switch, found it free of any traps and turned on the overhead lights.

"Bozshe moi," she grumbled. "I'm not _that_ damaged, you moron. Vampires don't scare me."

She ignored the black walls, the icons and carved crosses put up for decoration, tuned out the smell of incense and the sight of tall, unlit pillar candles. When the black velvet drapes that covered each casket got in her way, she tore them down without compunction or hesitation. There were close to a hundred black-draped coffins in the small space, some leaning upright against the walls, other stacked three high. Natasha methodically inspected every single one, starting at the far end of the room and working her way forwards towards the staircase. To her immense relief, many of the coffins appeared to be empty.

The first casket that didn't sound hollow when tapped had her freeze in place for a heartbeat. She repeated the check, found that she was right, then pulled out her heaviest knife and started to pry the lid off the box. It came easily, and Natasha swore some more when she came face to face with a dressed-up resuscitation dummy.

"I'm so gonna kill you. Slowly," she threatened her invisible enemy and moved on, her heart and mind now armoured against the macabre theatrics. Logic dictated that Barton had to be alive for his captor to have gone through all this rigmarole. Clint was a means to an end. Her heart continued to jump every time she came across a filled casket, but it no longer slowed her down.

She had only a dozen or so coffins left to check when she found Clint Barton – barely conscious, barely breathing and covered in blood.

ooO xXx ooO

Natasha's face was the most wonderful sight Clint Barton had ever seen. He squinted against the glare, the halo of Natasha's bright hair easy to make out. A warm palm briefly cupped his cheek and brushed through his hair, before she bent to cut his bonds.

"Can you sit up?"

Clint was breathing in deep, ragged gasps, desperate for air that hadn't been in and out of his lungs gazillion times already. Very, very slowly his vision cleared, and his mind could focus on more than just the brightness of Tasha's hair or the warmth of her hands. He didn't have enough air to speak and not enough energy to even move his head, so Natasha slipped an arm under his neck and slowly pulled him upright.

"Lean on me," she said, running her hands all over his head, back, chest and arms, looking for injuries. She took his hands into hers and held them tight as she spoke into the comms. "I've got him. Send the medical team."

"How is he, Agent Romanoff?"

The voice in his ear was familiar, but that was all Clint could have said about it. Fortunately, Natasha didn't have the same problem. She responded immediately.

"No major wounds. No broken bones. Dehydrated. Possibly hypothermic. Pulse shallow and thready. Breathing in rapid short gasps. Cyanosis in lips and fingers of both hands. Needle marks in both arms. Badly discoloured needle mark near carotid artery. Contusion over left temple. Cuts, bruises and abrasions – various."

She'd barely finished her recital when four men in SHIELD blues came clattering down the stairs.

"Oh my god," the first man through the doorway breathed when he saw the makeshift crypt and Clint, sitting in a ...box, covered in blood. "You said he had no major wounds, Agent Romanoff."

"I don't... " A cough tore up Clint's lungs, painful enough make him double over. The racking spasms went on and on until Clint saw stars and tears streamed down his face. He was only vaguely aware of Natasha's arm around his shoulders, her warm hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. He barely noticed when the doctor sprayed a fine mist of ... something... right in front of his face before asking him to breathe as deeply as he could manage. Eventually the cough subsided. The first unimpeded breath tasted sweet and minty and like heaven. And Clint was so wrung out that he would have collapsed back into the ... box, had Tasha and the doctor not held him upright.

After that, events blurred together.

Blood rushed through his head, loud enough to drown out everything else.

Someone placed a mask over his face and he tore it off in a panic. He _needed_ to breathe. He _needed _air and he _needed_ to tell Nat...

Coulson bent over him, his eyes warm and welcoming. The man's lips moved, but the disjointed sounds Clint caught made no sense. He tried to say so, but the darkness was faster.

Cecily and Nat sat beside him. Nat ran fingers through his hair and Cecily gave him water at intervals. Someone had cleaned most of the blood off him and he was pathetically grateful to be rid of the constant itching.

He tried to speak, warn Nat, warn Coulson, but every time he tried the darkness dragged him down.

It was endlessly frustrating.

ooO xXx Ooo

Natasha hadn't moved from Clint's side ever since she'd found him. Having watched Coulson watch Barton for several months now, she was a little surprised not to see the man at the head of the medical team. On second thoughts, she decided that she really should have known better. So she kept up a running commentary for Coulson's benefit while the doctor eased Clint's coughing fit, moved him to a gurney and got him readied for transport.

She didn't hold anything back. Not her concerns about Clint's blue lips and fingernails or the breathing problems, nor the fact that Clint desperately tried to communicate something, but was unable to do so. Coulson took it all in, keeping calm for the team's sake, and if he looked a little shaken when he laid eyes on Clint, gasping for breath and unable to understand anything said to him, Natasha made sure nobody else was aware of it.

"Tell me what we're dealing with," Coulson asked as soon as Vince Hamilton entered the small, screened-off area on the plane they had turned into a makeshift hospital room for Clint.

"Nothing we've seen before." The blond doctor frowned down at the latest batch of test results. "We're still running tests, but here's what I know right now: the antibiotics aren't making any difference. His temperature is still erratic and every time he exerts himself in even the mildest way, his blood oxygen levels drop so low he passes out."

"What about all this blood he was covered in?" Cecily's voice held the horror of seeing Clint look as if he'd been slaughtered. To her credit, she had kept it together, made every effort to help and focussed on the problem at hand. Natasha made a mental note to tell Clint about it later, sure he would be pleased.

The medic shrugged. "My best guess? They gave him a transfusion and he fought them. The blood wasn't his, but it was a match. My working hypothesis is that there's something in that blood that causes Agent Barton's symptoms."

"He keeps talking about carrots," Cecily threw in.

"That makes no sense."

"It's carats," Walsh interjected from the doorway. "We were sent after diamond smugglers."

"No," Natasha said suddenly. She looked up and found Coulson's eyes, glad to see he was right there with her. Evidence lined up and started to make sense. "No," she said again and the babble of voices cut out and everyone turned to look at her.

"Carrots," she said. "A lure." She ran her fingers through Clint's sweaty hair, nails scraping gently over his scalp the way he liked. "He's trying to tell us that this is a trap."

Before anyone could comment, the equipment monitoring Clint's condition went crazy. Alarms wailed, monitors bleeped and Clint arched up on the bed as if he'd been shocked. Once, twice he jerked while Natasha and Coulson held him tightly and then his body went limp. The heart rate monitor went from frantic beeping to emitting one, long endless tone.

"Shit! We're losing him."


	9. Purple

**A/N:** Ok, so I accept that I'm evil... though looking at the number of comments, you seem to love that more than when I'm not! Thanks so much to anyone who commented and fave'd the last chapter. And sorry for the wait. I'm crazy busy right now with client work, but I'm making up for it with a long chapter. (and a not so evil cliffie!) Thanks for sticking with the story. I really appreciate your company.

* * *

_There was a perfectly good reason why Clint Barton loved purple – and it wasn't the fact that it made his eyes pop. Whatever that meant._

Fingers, warm and strong, wrapped closely around his. A soft weight leaned against his shoulder and a waft of sandalwood tempered by a hint of spice touched his face. He knew that scent almost better than the one he liked to wear when he wasn't on a job. Warm and masculine, the memory of Phil Coulson's cologne was sometimes all Clint had to comfort himself with when he was stuck on a roof in freezing temperatures or wet to the skin while hiding in a tree. Having it close now could only mean that Phil was here with him. Clint didn't care where 'here' was, he was just grateful that he wasn't alone. His body hurt. Hell, every hair on his head was hurting – even when he lay still! He wasn't brave enough to try to move yet. Well, maybe his eyelids – they only needed two muscles to move and then he could see if he was imagining things or if Coulson was actually there.

Blinking his eyes open was hard work. Judging by the way his temples throbbed, he'd used more than just two muscles to move his heavy lids. Or maybe it was the way he was squinting against the bright light that shone right into his eyes that made his head hurt.

"Lights!" a voice hissed and Clint tried a careful smile before he attempted to turn his head to the sound. Natasha was somewhere close by, too.

"Don't move," she admonished and the warm weight leaning against Clint's shoulder disappeared.

"Barton, welcome back." Phil Coulson leaned over him, his eyes warm and his smile welcoming. "I really wish you'd stop with the near-death experiences."

"Me, too," Clint tried to say, but his voice wasn't cooperating. He suddenly noticed how dry and sore his throat was and how much the simple act of drawing breath was hurting him. Before he could say anything, Phil held a cup of water to his lips.

"Yes, you've been intubated," he said while Clint swallowed cold water as if it was nectar. "And yes, they had to resuscitate you."

That explained both the sore throat and the sore ribs.

"Did they break any?" Clint whispered when Coulson set the cup on the nightstand.

"They think not. But you're bound to be sore. Keeping you with us took some doing."

Coulson looked uncharacteristically rumpled. His jacket was gone, the top buttons of his shirt were open and the tie – smooth silk crushed and knot mangled beyond repair – looked more like a hastily settled noose than the elegant neckwear it should have been. There were dark shadows at the back of Coulson's gaze, too, and when Natasha's hand slipped into Clint's and clung he returned the tight grip.

"Why?" he queried.

"Lack of oxygen." Nat answered. He couldn't see her face, but he heard the fine tremor in her voice and squeezed her hand. "You'd hung on for so long with so little..."

Clint wanted to reassure her, wanted to ask questions, wanted to know if they'd identified the drug he'd been injected with, wanted to... His body had other ideas. Just drinking a few sips of water had exhausted him and before he fully realised that there was still a drip in his arm and an oxygen line under his nose, he had drifted off to sleep once more.

ooO xXx Ooo

He felt better when he woke. He was still sore, but the throbbing in his head had subsided and the lack of nausea was a distinct bonus. Though when Clint saw the deep shadows under Coulson's eyes and the gaunt look to the man's cheeks he wondered who had actually paid the price for his recovery. Judging by the state of Coulson's wardrobe, Clint had been out for a while. Phil had shed the omnipresent suit and was riding herd on a mountain of SHIELD paperwork dressed in jeans and a white tee, with a deep blue hoodie keeping off the chill that was the norm in Medical. The sight was so unexpected that Clint chuckled.

Which turned out to be a thoroughly bad idea. The coughing fit morphed into a bout of wheezing and gasping that sent machines beeping and doctors running. Worst of all, though, it removed Phil Coulson from Clint's sight. The man had stepped out of the way at the first sign of the white-gowned invasion and now, after long minutes of eucalyptus-scented mist, injections and oxygen, Clint could no longer tell where Coulson was. Or if he was even still in the room.

Why that sent Clint spiralling into an honest-to-god flashback, he'd never be able to explain to himself or anyone else, but while he was gasping for breath and every cell in his body started to burn his mind went back into the cellar. And stayed for a long time.

He surfaced at the sound of his name and found the room dim and quiet, with only Coulson and Natasha by his side.

"It's a trap," he said softly, before his body decided that being awake was a bad idea. "_I'm_ a trap." He got his hands under him and pushed himself upright by degrees, stopping every time his chest started to tighten. It took some time before he had managed to manoeuvre himself the way he wanted. But at least he could see Phil and Nat without giving away how good it felt that he wasn't alone.

"We're aware."

"You've been doing your damnest to tell us ever since we found you."

"I have?"

"Yes," Natasha nodded from her position at the foot of the bed. She was wrapped in a deep purple blanket and held a tablet in her hand. "They've isolated the drug they pumped into you."

"It's something that binds to my red blood cells, right?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The fact that I'm wheezing like a ninety-year-old asthmatic grandmother should be a clue," Clint said bitterly. Enforced idleness never sat well with him. Enforced idleness _and_ the inability to breathe as soon as he lifted a finger... that was worse than some of his worst nightmares. He rubbed both hands over his face. Slowly. "I hate being weak."

"You're not weak, Barton. You've been poisoned. Get it right!"

There was a surprising amount of bite in Phil Coulson's tone. Clint grinned sheepishly when he realised how whiny he must have sounded. "Sorry."

"Are you up for answering questions?"

"Sure."

"What is the significance of the colour purple?"

"What?" Clint had noticed that only the walls in his room were the non-descript off-white all of SHIELD Medical was decked out in. Everything else – his sweats and tee, the bedding and even the chair covers – came in shades of purple. From the pale amethyst tee he wore to the deep maroon of the pillows and quilt on his bed. In his years with SHIELD, Clint had spent many hours in Medical, but the only colour he'd ever seen down here was the bright purple plaster the doctor liked to use for casts.

"Focus." Natasha smacked him on the leg, indicating he'd zoned out.

"You know I like purple," Clint stopped the shrug before he'd properly started. Best not to move. "It's my favourite colour."

"You're restless even when you're not conscious. You keep talking about purple, more specifically you've been saying that," Nat looked down at the tablet she held, "_only purple will save you_."

"Oh," Clint managed a very small nod without any ill effects. "He kept saying that. And then he'd laugh. He had a really creepy, high-pitched cackle. Like a witch, you know?"

Phil suddenly leaned forward, intent in every line of his body. "You're talking about the man who tortured you?"

"Yeah. I had no idea I even remembered that."

"What else do you remember?"

"Pain," Clint said and then wanted to take it right back. The sudden anguish in Phil's eyes was hard to handle. "Burning pain, to be precise," he continued, talking quickly in his best colourless mission-debrief voice. "The cellar was cold and I could see my breath like steam rising off me. It was surreal. Lights were bright, so I'm not sure how many people there were. Two, maybe? The main guy was very tall, and skinny as a slat."

"Hair colour? Eyes?"

"Nothing, sorry," Clint said after a moment. "He had long, thin fingers, the nails bitten right down. And he talked continuously. Just spouting venom, you know?"

He was starting to fight for breath when Natasha uncoiled herself from the foot of the bed. She spread the purple blanket across his quilt and leaned to place a soft kiss on his cheek. "Try to remember what he said," she breathed in his ear. "He sounds like he loves to monologue."

Clint nodded obediently and tried to catch a last glimpse of Phil Coulson's face before fatigue dragged him under again.

ooO xXx Ooo

A week later Clint had reached the end of his tether. Flashbacks he could handle. Injuries he could deal with. But this debilitating weakness that forced him to rest for two hours after a simple trip to the bathroom... that he couldn't take. He felt so cut off from everything going on at SHIELD, he might as well be back out on the streets by himself.

Phil Coulson came by with coffee and news twice a day. Natasha had been buried in a lab for the last two days. Clint saw doctors and nurses. He had a daily blood transfusion. He was poked and prodded and injected with this and that. His every breath and heartbeat was monitored... but his condition didn't improve. Physical exertion immediately led to shortness of breath and if he pushed it his body shut down. And now someone had thought it a good idea to have a psychologist annoy the crap out of him. The woman was pale-haired and softly spoken, and she really didn't know when to take no for an answer and shut up.

"Oh, for fuck's sake – give it a rest!" Clint jumped up so abruptly the woman took a hasty step back and almost tripped over her chair.

"Agent Barton," she huffed. "The treatment protocol-"

"I don't give a flying fuck about the treatment protocol," Clint roared. "I want you to stop bugging me!" He crossed the room, desperate to get away. "There's no earthly reason why you have to keep harping on about it," he continued his tirade. "Is there a law against liking purple all of a sudden?"

He spun and fixed a glare on her.

"Of course not."

The soft placating voice, pitched low to soothe the hysterical or stupid, pushed Clint's ire up a few notches. On a normal day he could sit hours without twitching a muscle. Right then, he just couldn't keep still. Agitated and irate, he paced up and down the small room. "Then would you explain to me," he grated through his teeth, "why the fuck this even matters?"

He spun when no answer came, and it was only when he saw the woman's wide eyes that he realised he was moving – marching! – up and down his hospital room without any trouble breathing. It was also the moment he realised he was warm and getting more uncomfortable by the moment. His skin grew tight and hot, shivers flashed through him like discharges of static electricity, and then the burn started deep inside his body.

It was a pain he remembered. It grew along with his memory until he wanted to claw his skin off, open his veins and shed the blood that was boiling inside him. He gritted his teeth against the agony, desperate to keep all sounds locked deep in his throat. His mind supplied a soundtrack of high-pitched cackling laughter to accompany the pain and Clint threw himself onto his bed.

"Get Coulson," he gasped before he buried his face in the pillow to muffle his screams and tried to lose himself in an ocean of purple.

ooO xXx Ooo

Fingers, warm and strong, wrapped closely around his and the smell of sandalwood surrounded him once more. Clint came back from where he'd hidden from the agony and found a smile for the man sitting beside his bed.

"Thank you for bringing me back."

"I will always bring you back, Clint. You know that, right?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

The fingers that had gripped his so tightly slid loose, but they weren't withdrawn. Instead, Phil's thumb rubbed circles over the inside of Clint's wrist until warmth bloomed in Clint's chest and he blinked up curiously at the other man.

"Do you think you can move?"

Clint would have done anything to have Phil Coulson continue to look at him like that. Like he mattered. He was about to answer, but all that came out was a sigh as the door of his room opened and a very angry pale-haired woman marched in.

"Agent Coulson."

Going by the glare, the woman wished Coulson to the antipodes.

"What are you doing here?"

"I am relocating Agent Barton."

"You cannot. I have not yet completed my assignment."

"He won't tell you, doctor," Coulson said in his most reasonable voice. "But being a woman, you should be able to guess."

"I should?" Her brow wrinkled and she scrunched up her eyes. If she had suddenly sprouted whiskers, she'd have looked like a cat just before it yawned. Clint couldn't look away, so he saw her eyes widen and her cheeks flush. "Women like it?"

Coulson shrugged and grabbed Clint's pack from where it rested by the foot of the bed. "It makes his eyes pop," he said, smiling. "Women like it a lot." Then his voice turned brisk and professional. "I'm taking charge of Agent Barton, doctor. I need to take him offsite to debrief, but I assure you that he will be attending his next scheduled assessment session."

Clint didn't argue when Coulson held out a hand and helped him to his feet. He merely stood and turned towards the door. He wasn't looking forward to further questioning, but right now he'd take it if it got him out of medical.

"How are you holding up?" Phil wanted to know as Clint slumped against the elevator wall.

"'s ok," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself. He wore nothing but sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt and the chill was getting to him.

"I have your winter clothes in my office," Coulson said. "Nat warned me that you'd be feeling cold after this attack."

"Was it bad?"

"You don't remember?"

"I remember getting angry, then pain, then... nothing."

Coulson was silent for a long time, then he suddenly reached and gripped Clint's wrist. "It was bad. But you're unbelievably strong. They all said you wouldn't make it. But you did."

Clint had never seen Phil Coulson's eyes look so soft, heard his voice so full of conviction. It chased a little of the cold from his mind and out of his soul. "What did I do?"

"You calmed down."

ooO xXx Ooo

When Clint woke in Coulson's apartment, Natasha had joined them amidst a flurry of papers and printouts.

"Have they found something useful?" Clint yawned. He leaned on one hand to push himself upright, while he rubbed sleep out of his eyes with the other. Just that small bit of exertion made breathing a little more of a chore. Clint was tuned to it now, the way his brain struggled to make sense of his even breathing and the continued lack of oxygen.

"They found something," Natasha confirmed, lips turned down at the corners.

"Wanna share?"

"No."

Natasha sounded unusually disgruntled and it drew a smile from Clint. "You're gonna tell me I was right. Right?"

She sighed. "Yes, you were right. The compound binds to your red blood cells and prevents them from carrying oxygen. Or rather, enough oxygen."

She fell silent again and Clint felt a frown beginning to tug on his brow. It wasn't like Nat to make him beg. Not about something as serious as this.

"What else?" He asked when neither Nat nor Coulson made any attempt to explain further. "What about when I got angry? Does the compound react with adrenaline?"

"Yes. But not the way we thought." She picked up her tablet and stared down at it as if it held the secrets of the universe. Without looking up, she continued: "As you thought, the compound reacting with the adrenaline in your bloodstream creates that burning sensation. But the adrenaline is not neutralising the compound or dissolving it or anything. The results say the two combine to create a very powerful electromagnetic field. Clint," Natasha's voice was very soft, almost apologetic, "they turned you into a bomb."

Clint was aware that both Natasha and Coulson were holding their breath, waiting for a reaction. He sat still, looked straight ahead and took one slow breath after another. It wasn't a hard thing to do. He didn't even need to focus on anything purple. Deep down, in some corner of his soul he'd not dared to look into before, he'd already known what had been done to him. He'd already decided that he would fight. And win. After all, there was a perfectly good reason why Clint loved purple – and it wasn't the fact that it made his eyes pop. Whatever that meant.


	10. Dance on a Wire

_A/N: It's been such a hectic couple of weeks, but I was determined to get at least one more update posted this side of Christmas. If nothing else as a thankyou for all your comments and encouragement, which kept me going when the Muse went on the warpath. I've tried to get back to focussing on Clint & Phil's relationship and add a little fluff to tide us all over. I don't think I'll get much writing done between family and work over the holidays - but if I do you'll be the first to know._

_Meanwhile - a very merry Christmas to those who celebrate it. And a Very Happy New Year to you all!_

* * *

_It was glaringly obvious that whoever tried to destroy SHIELD HQ had picked the wrong asset to use as a weapon. Question was, though, how long could Clint hold on? Especially with Phil Coulson around._

"I assume SHIELD isn't aware," Clint said after a long moment.

"Not yet, no." There was no inflection in Natasha's voice, but a tiny smirk curled the corner of her mouth. Clint knew that smirk only too well.

"Shit! You're going to tell Fury."

"He's coming over later," Coulson confirmed calmly from behind his stack of paperwork. "It would be useful if we had more than the disaster scenario to share."

"Right," Clint settled himself carefully into the cushions and thought. He'd never finished high school, gone to college or gotten a degree, but he had spent a lot of his time with SHIELD studying. At first, to be better at his job. Later, because he'd seen too much in the field and wanted to make sense of it. The result was that he knew a lot more about drugs and their effects than most people surmised. Right now, that knowledge was a blessing. Being shot up with some arcane chemical that stopped your body from utilising oxygen and left you gasping like a stranded carp if you exerted yourself could have freaked him right out. And that was before he even considered that he was now – for all intents and purposes – a walking bomb.

He turned his head towards Natasha. "Do we know how the bomb part works?"

"Like a giant electromagnetic pulse," she replied immediately.

"So if it had gone off in Medical, SHIELD would be blind, deaf and mute."

"Not just SHIELD, but... yes."

"Any idea what it would it do to me?"

"Best case scenario? Stop your heart."

"Worst case?"

"Stop your heart and fry your brain."

"Nice."

She stuck her tongue out at him and Clint grinned. They didn't talk about death, he and Nat, but given their jobs death continued to intrude. They'd grown very good at ignoring it until it was almost like a white elephant... or maybe a purple one, since purple seemed to be the key to the riddle.

"What exactly happened when I passed out?"

"You win." With a disgruntled frown Natasha reached into her jacket and pulled out a note. She handed it to Coulson, who took it and winked at Clint. And why had Clint never noticed how adorable an expression that was on the man?

"What did you think I'd ask first?"

"How we got you out of SHIELD HQ."

Clint shook his head and forced himself to stopping looking at his handler. They had serious issues at stake here, after all. "If Fury is making house calls, he's authorised me going off site. And Nat? I do recognise a diversion when I see one. Tell me what happened."

She heaved a sigh, but then pulled up some information on her tablet. "Between the drug and your body's adrenaline, your blood chemistry went haywire," she said tightly. "The building energy charge kept your heart rate high. You were in pain, so your body added endorphins into the mix. Most of the drug reacted with the adrenaline, so at least you had enough oxygen circulating. When you started to calm down – and, by the way, the doctors have no idea how you managed that – the adrenaline dissipated and the drug went back to messing with your ability to use oxygen."

"So the drug has a marked affinity to adrenaline," Clint said slowly and waited for Natasha's nod.

When the doorbell interrupted the conversation Coulson got up to answer, leaving Clint to stare at wide shoulders under a deep blue tee and one fine ass covered in denim until Natasha smacked him in the head.

"Focus."

"I'm plenty focussed, thanks!" Clint snarked, surprised by his sudden interest. It wasn't as if he'd never seen Coulson in casual clothes before. So why was he only now noticing the muscles on the man? Strange. He shook his head and waved at the tablet Natasha was still holding. "Do you have historical data on that thing?"

She stared at him suspiciously. "From the moment the medical team got you onto the plane and hooked up to life support," she said slowly, brows furrowed. "Why?"

"May I?" Clint held out his hand, but Natasha clutched the tablet to her chest as if handing it over would do irreparable damage to Clint. "Humour me, Nat," he pleaded. "I think I know how to fix this, but let me look at some numbers before I go shooting my mouth off."

"I'm not going to let you kill yourself."

"Understood."

Nat handed over the tablet, and Clint looked for the results of his blood counts. He considered it a stroke of luck that he had studied the physiological effects of colours, first back in the circus, later in more detail at SHIELD. His mind had retained his torturer's taunts when Clint hadn't been able to pay attention and had alerted him to their content when he was. And now, as he studied the data on Natasha's tablet, the wisp of an idea in the back of his mind solidified more and more with every line of data he scrutinised. Sleeping and dreaming, being awake and unconscious, calm and angry – the results slotted into place with an ease that Clint couldn't quite believe. And it had all started with a taunting remark about the saving grace of the colour purple.

"This is obscene," he gasped out, when he had finally made sense of what his mind was telling him.

"What is?"

Clint looked up into the worried eyes of the three people that meant the most to him. Nat was angry but hiding it well. Coulson didn't hide his concern. And Fury... Nick Fury was dreading Clint's next words. The man was vibrating with the need to act – help – do, clearly held in place by just his will. It meant a lot to Clint, who'd never known anyone to really care for him, to find three people by his bedside who did.

"Talk to us, Barton," Fury demanded finally and while the words were the right ones, the man speaking them and the tone he used were so wrong that Clint smiled and relaxed for the first time since he'd woken in a box.

"I think we can fix this," he said and waved Natasha closer. She needed the reassurance. Coulson and Fury trusted him to look out for himself. Natasha understood him in a different way. "Look." He pulled up the data he'd been looking at earlier. "While I've been unconscious the drug slowly dissipated. When I'm agitated, it doesn't. The levels in my blood stay constant. When I calm after getting angry the drug multiplies as it unbinds from the adrenaline."

"So we keep you unconscious for a month and you're fine?"

"Not quite." Clint pulled up another graph and showed it to Natasha, eyes flashing. "These results suggest that the drug dissipates fastest when I'm awake, but totally calm."

"You mean you can just... Zen it out?"

"Yes," Clint answered on autopilot and with a lot more conviction than he actually felt. He still wasn't entirely convinced that it wasn't all part of the trap. "It might take some time. We need to do tests to see how quickly it dissipates and what I can and can't do."

"Barton, if there's a chance that I don't have to lose you I don't care how long it takes." Fury's palm slid over Clint's shoulder, squeezing hard. "Focus on getting that fixed. Don't worry about anything else."

Clint nodded, Fury left in a swirl of black leather and Natasha went with him to set up a lab to monitor Clint's blood count. After a while, Coulson returned carrying steaming mugs of tea.

"Are you hungry?"

"Not really." Clint took his mug with a grateful sigh. "I've no idea what they've given me while I was out, but even a tub of cookie dough choc chip ice cream doesn't tempt me right now."

"We'll have to see about that." Coulson had his hands wrapped around his mug as if he was trying to ward off a chill. "Were you serious or was this a ton of bullshit designed to placate the director?"

"Would I do that?"

"I've never known you to."

"There you go, then." Clint almost smiled. Coulson was failing miserably at keeping his poker face.

"Explain it to me?"

Clint huffed, not sure where to start. "What's your favourite colour?" he asked eventually.

Phil's eyes almost fell shut as he thought. "Not sure," he said eventually. "Soft grey? Silver?"

Clint smiled widely. "That makes perfect sense. Solid and stable, creating calm and comfort from chaos. Responsible, dependable, formal, elegant and plays well with others," he recited with a smirk.

"Is that so?"

"That is so. But colour doesn't just reflect personalities. It also affects people's minds and bodies."

"I know that much, Barton. Tell me about purple."

The innocuous question felt surprisingly personal. Clint felt his neck heat, felt the flush rise to the tops of his ears, and he forced himself to hold Phil Coulson's gaze. "Purple is the perfect colour, halfway between the warmest red and the coolest blue," he began quietly, feeling as if he exposed his soul and not minding nearly as much as he'd expected. "It's halfway between passion and calm, between action and serenity, despair and pleasure. It's..."

"How you live," Phil said softly.

"Purple is like... a dance on a wire," Clint said, glad Coulson understood. "It's waiting for hours, then exploding into action. It's killing in the hope of doing good." He shrugged. "Purple is... my life, my job. It describes what I do. How I keep grounded."

"And why you think you can beat this drug."

Clint's breath came out in long rush of relief. Coulson had heard his halting explanations and got it. Very few people did. Clint was glad that Coulson was one of them.

They settled into a routine after that. First thing in the morning, Nat arrived with the contents of Phil's inbox, messages and coffee. She left shortly after with Clint's blood, returning at lunchtime with food, the blood count results and more messages and paperwork. They spent the afternoons working spread through Phil's flat. In the evenings, Phil cooked or they ordered takeout, watched movies, or just played music and talked. Clint did little more than meditate and read poetry and for several days the levels of the drug in his blood declined steadily.

Then they hit a plateau. Clint was grumpy all day and the following morning his blood count was up. Phil tried to talk to him about it, Nat almost started an interrogation and Clint was sullenly silent.

"Up again," Nat said as she came through the door, nodding when she saw Clint's face. "You already knew."

"I could guess."

"How? You're better than that, Clint. Tell me."

Clint didn't want to answer that. He really didn't. But... this was Nat, who knew him better than anyone else. Who was just as stubborn and determined as he was. And who wasn't above using violence to get what she wanted. Clint had had enough pain to last him a while, so he finally sighed and admitted: "It's Coulson. He's ... distracting."

"Oh."

Natasha said nothing further, but the pinched lips and furrowed brows spoke volumes. When she left the room, steps brisk and back ramrod straight, Clint pulled the blankets over his head and tried to lose himself in colour.

Of course he failed.

"Nat says I'm the reason for your problems."

"I'm gonna kill her," Clint grated through clenched teeth. He'd expected Nat to talk to Phil. He'd just hoped that she wouldn't.

"Barton."

"What?"

"Your plan was working. Now it's not and Nat tells me it's somehow my fault. Explain this, please."

It was the _please_ that did it. That was Phil talking, not Agent Coulson. And Clint caved. "You're too distracting," he mumbled, head still half buried under his blankets.

"You're one to talk."

"What? I'm not distracting."

"You can be. Very distracting."

"Fine," Clint snapped suddenly. He sat up and glared at the man standing over him like a guardian angel. "But me being distracting isn't an issue right now, ok? Right now, I look at you in those jeans and..." Heat crashed over him like a wave. Just the thought of Coulson's ass in figure-hugging denim, the memory of ancient, much washed tees outlining a muscled chest... it didn't just make his mouth water.

"Clint! Calm down."

He reached blindly for his pillow and buried his face in the lavender-scented linen. Nat had picked it out for him when he mentioned the small bottle of oil he had in his go bag. The scent helped him picture fields of purple, rolling hills of soothing calm and peaceful villages drowsing in the afternoon heat. The three-months undercover mission to Provence was one of Clint's most cherished memories, as close as he'd ever come to a holiday. As usual when he buried himself in memories of the village he'd stayed in, recalling sights and sounds and smells, his breathing calmed and his heartbeat slowed. The burn in his veins receded until it was nothing but the hint of a nightmare.

When Clint raised his head, Phil was sitting beside the bed. His expression was serious and the corners of his eyes were creased with worry.

"I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't," Clint hastened to cut him off. "You've been nothing but supportive. You've invited me into your home. You're looking after me. You're not responsible for the stupid in my head!" His voice had grown louder and louder until he was almost yelling and Coulson stood over him to push him back into the cushions.

"Calm down," he said with firm authority. "Whatever this is, it's not worth getting agitated about."

Clint had heard that voice in his ear too many times over the last years to ignore the implied command. He settled back into bed, relaxed his shoulders and focussed on breathing. He trusted Coulson, trusted him to keep him safe and away from chaos. And Coulson was Coulson, so he did.

"I was trying to apologise for making your job harder without realising it," Phil Coulson said with a tiny smile. "And I had this idea. Would it help if I wore a suit?"


End file.
